


Self-Conclusion

by hamishholmess



Series: Soldier John, All Day Long. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Afghanistan, Alternate Universe, BAMF John Watson, Captain John Watson, Doctor John Watson, John Watson in Afghanistan, John Watson is a Saint, John in Afghanistan, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Angst, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock freeform, M/M, Past Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Songfic, soldier John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-16 17:33:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2278554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamishholmess/pseuds/hamishholmess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hello, my darling loves. <br/>John Watson is a fantastic Captain and even better Doctor. Sherlock Holmes is a mess, a wreck, a destroyer of worlds, and also happens to be an espionage agent. After a bout with drugs goes sour, Sherlock is stuck under the care of John Watson. What unfolds, God only knows.</p>
<p>Inspired by a fantastic favorite of mine, Self-Conclusion, by The Spill Canvas. If you've never heard it, please take a listen. <br/>I don't own these precious babies, I just like to pretend I do. <3</p>
<p>"You make it sound so easy to be alive<br/>But tell me, how am I supposed to seize this day<br/>When everything inside me has died?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If You Want To Destroy My Sweater

\\\1.

 

“Hello. I’m Captain Watson. I’ve taken over this shift. I’m just going to check your vitals and let you continue resting.”

He blinked against the late afternoon sun, seeping in through the crack of the canvas tent. His eyes attempted to focus on the blur of the man in front of him. A head of messy, sandy blonde hair, kissed with gray, sharpened, followed by piercing blue eyes, furrowed brows and a pair of pursed lips. “Now, if you’ll just sit up for me…” The cold of the stethoscope caused his breath to catch in his chest. The cadet blue eyes were then glancing, gently, into his, focused, steady, and sympathetic. Sherlock huffed in a few breaths, rolling his eyes. He was thoroughly exhausted with people looking at him like that, as if he deserved the pity of absolute strangers.

The metal traveled across his chest, then to his back. Captain Watson’s hands told Sherlock a great deal about the character of the man: they were strong hands, tanned and freckled, his blonde hair shining like gold from the unforgiving light of the desert sun. They were callused across the insides of his fingers, and where his digits connected to the palms. A sure sign of manual labor and legwork, possibly hints at a past involving instruments, but mostly they spoke to Watson doing what he must to earn his keep. Though he was a soldier, he was delicate and gentle in his movements: conscientious, attentive, and kind. Could be worse. Sherlock has had doctors in the past who were ready to kill him themselves and take the death number on their record, believing they would be doing the world a massive favor. Watson knew nothing of the path of destruction that was Sherlock Holmes. At least… not just yet.

“Alright, Mr. Holmes, you seem to be doing just fine. A delayed reaction time, but that’s to be expected with the morphine.” Sherlock chuckled. He knew Doctor Watson had looked over his record. What a precious man, to feign naivety at his last ten hospital visits scrawled in nearly illegible handwriting on the dust covered folder. Even when you worked for the government, for SAS, for your literal big brother, damn Mycroft, that indulgent prick, some things never change. “Is there anything I can get you?”

Sherlock’s ears perked at the tone of his voice. Genuine concern. Pathetic. Was this guy new? Did he not understand standard procedure of reading up? Surely, if he did, he would know his patient is a coked out sociopath: unpleasant, untamed, and unrelenting. The agent looked into the doctor’s eyes, doing his best to destroy him, deduction by deduction. It worked every single time. All he needed was one, tiny character trait to pull, and he could unravel him. He could reduce Captain Watson to a trembling pile of fury and hatred. Now, where to start.

Doctor Watson stared back at him, eyes wide and at full alert. The blue was as far from ice as it could be while still living within the same hue. His brows were furrowed enough to show worry, but not so much to look worrisome by nature. His mouth was firm, pulled up only a minute amount at the right corner. His whole head was shifted slightly to the right, cocked as though he had heard something off, something odd. He looked expectant. Watson’s shoulders were squared, braced for impact. Sherlock exhaled. That. That tiny deduction, just there. Watson knew. He had read. Sherlock puzzled, brows furrowing and eyes burying themselves deeper into Watson’s. The doctor showed no sign of fear or recoil. He maintained the contact. Behind the kindness and the worry was acknowledgement, and a tinge, just a little bit, of acceptance. Familiarity. Interesting.

He had nothing. There was nothing he could deduce, not a single string he could pull…

“What’s your first name?”

“John.”

 _Nothing_ to unravel Captain John Watson.


	2. Cassiopeia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes could admit what he had done in a moment was foolish. His mind had been untreated for months, and one of his infamous black moods had dug nasty, tar colored roots into his heart, spreading and touching everything and everyone that once meant something. He felt nothing and The Work had lost all its allure: it was no longer challenging. MI6 equated to Scotland Yard, but with nicer suits and classier criminals. It’s all the same process, in the end. It was that realization that led Sherlock to up his intake, increase the ante, take his mind to an entirely new level. He had thought it would make things easier. If he was sharper, he could breeze through it all and then, when the real cases came, he would be ready. Hungry, starving even, for real work. But it had not happened that way at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, darlings
> 
> So right now my plan is to post at least every Wednesday. With my last fic, I posted nearly every day, but the chapters weren't always long or well developed, and that's something I'd like to get better at! So, here's our first Wednesday post. Not quite as long as I had hoped, but I only had two nights to work on it! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! As always, please, leave me any thoughts or helpful criticism! Ideas are fun, too, as things are still in the process of being developed and planned!
> 
> XoX  
> hamishh

// 2.

 

Sherlock woke in a cold sweat. He felt his eyes dilate to readjust to the darkness. That was one of his favorite uncontrollable responses to cocaine – feeling his eyes expand and soak up everything they could absorb. That’s what the drugs were for after all, another fine tune. One extra click, another measure, just one step above his typical genius. Once he had realized that was a possibility, to be even sharper than he is in a sober state, there was no going back. He was always on point; sometimes he just needed one tiny bump of help to stay there. Not to mention his career was so dull sometimes. Too easy, figuring out where the strangled woman in the hammock came from, why she’s dead. Criminal’s foxy wife, fooling around with men she ought not to. Hire an assassin, eliminate the loose ends, or hell, sometimes they’d kill them themselves. It was rare, in his line of work, for the criminals to stoop to the level of murder. Most of them detested getting their hands dirty. They didn’t make their money doing legwork. Neither did Mycroft. Sherlock scoffed. Precious, delicate, sentimental Mycroft.

His brother was seeing someone. Sherlock wasn’t an idiot; he was a Holmes. And the Holmes knew, saw, observed all. He had noticed the sassy saunter of Mycroft’s walk, the way he caressed the handle of his umbrella when he was standing in place, the small, disgusting glint that surfaced in his eyes when he wasn’t focused or talking about The Work. Pathetic. Sherlock knew it was the Detective Inspector. Lestrade. Graham? Gavin? G-something. What did it matter? Mycroft would destroy him soon enough. He always did.

Sherlock ran a hand through his sweat lined curls. What he would give for a proper shower. The hygiene here in Kandahar was shameful; how the soldiers endured it, he had no idea. Although, they were a different class of human altogether – submissive to the orders of those above them. They would never care about having six minutes of lukewarm water and a mutual bar of soap. But Sherlock’s skin broke out in gooseflesh at the thought. As soon as he returned to London, he would take a hot shower for days. He missed Baker Street. Desperately. Never thought he would admit to that. Kandahar was miserable. Dusty, khaki-colored misery.

 

+

 

Holmes could admit what he had done in a moment was foolish. His mind had been untreated for months, and one of his infamous black moods had dug nasty, tar colored roots into his heart, spreading and touching everything and everyone that once meant something. He felt nothing and The Work had lost all its allure: it was no longer challenging. MI6 had equated to Scotland Yard, but with nicer suits and classier criminals. It’s all the same process, in the end. It was that realization that led Sherlock to up his intake, increase the ante, take his mind to an entirely new level. He had thought it would make things easier. If he was sharper, he could breeze through it all and then, when the real cases came, he would be ready. Hungry, starving even, for real work. But it had not happened that way at all.

It had consumed him, the darkness. It made him mad: he was anxious and exhausted and fuck, so strung out. And then the indifference leaked in. It didn’t matter if he ate, if he showed up for work, if he got his suit pressed before going in, if he had a license to carry that weapon or not, if it was unwise to hunt the criminal down himself. He became reckless. Ruthless, and terribly reckless. He had been coming down from a particularly nasty high, something had gone awry there, and all Sherlock remembered was bleeding out in that repulsive, Iraqi hotel tub, suit and all. He had ruined that plum satin shirt. Damn. He hadn’t even thought of that until just now. It had been his favorite.

The tent rustled as a desert breeze pushed its way through. The nights were cold in Kandahar. He pulled his coat on, careful of the wrappings that covered the majority of both his arms, and stepped out barefoot into the sand. Soon they would be moved to a proper facility, but until then, it was tent living. Sherlock loathed it. He was not meant to crawl in and out of canvas, to sweat on a cot or drink unpurified water. But some nights, like this one, he didn’t mind it as much. He rolled up the hem of his slacks and buried his feet deep into the still warm sand. His hands found his pockets and he looked up. The clear nights in the Afghanistan desert were some of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. He’d never admit that to another soul, that he found beauty in the nighttime. The moon was waning, still almost at the halfway mark. It had just begun to curve.

Sherlock pinpointed Cassiopeia. He never indulged in nostalgia or silly things, like stories about constellations. But Cassiopeia was a soft spot for him. He had discovered it with Redbeard, during a summer at the country estate. The wind rustled again and picked the damp curls off his neck.

“Do you do this often?”

Sherlock spun, caught off guard by the voice. It was nearly three in the morning, gauging at the star alignment and depth of darkness. Doctor Watson stood by the tent in parade rest, fully dressed in his uniform. His hands were clasped in front of his hips, the chin strap of his helmet left undone. He had a curious look in his eyes, chased with the tiniest hint of surprise and amusement. Holmes turned his back to him once again and looked up.

“There isn’t a damn thing to do otherwise.”

Watson chuckled, more to himself than aloud. “It isn’t good for you to be up and out with your arms so fresh. Last thing we need is a newly agitated set of wounds.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and cracked his neck. He felt uneasy at the casualness of the words Captain Watson used. Fresh, as though this happened all the time. Holmes clenched his jaw. John’s voice had not been accusing or condescending, just factual. Straight to the point. Odd. That was something the younger Holmes only expected from Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson. Not from acquaintances, and certainly not strangers. He could feel the Captain’s eyes on his back.

“Are you just going to stand back there or?” He would rather have him where he could see him, if he insisted on staying and ruining his perfectly nice night. The sound of sand against boots grew closer and soon Watson was standing right next to Sherlock, less than an arm’s length away. Sherlock turned his head only enough to see John Watson in his peripheral vision. His posture was straight as an arrow; he was stocky and strong and looked different in this light. Sherlock turned to observe John thoroughly. Softer. Handsome, even. His eyes were fearfully expressive, his mouth was an easy tell as well. It was turned up at the right corner in a small smile. His brows were relaxed, eyes wide and alert. He always seemed on. It was three in the damned morning. Most soldiers are savoring every second of sleep before that god awful, spine splitting morning call came at 0430.

“You can never see the stars like this in London.” John’s voice was gentle and lulling. Sherlock’s mind was suddenly filled with an image of Watson sitting next to a twin bed, reading aloud _Guess How Much I Love You_ to his four year old son. There was no band on the captain’s finger, and he would never take it off if he had one. Unmarried, likely unattached. Sexuality? To be determined. Fairly certain heterosexual.

“If this is the only good thing about this god-forsaken place, I can’t say it’s worth it.”

John sighed. It was a forgiving sound, as though he disagreed but could maybe, possibly, see why you felt that way. Sherlock sensed that this was Captain Watson’s home. He never seemed distraught or homesick, never spoke much of his family or wishing for his next leave, and every single day he was on. Completely focused, wholly involved and attentive, kind and gentle but never someone who would be easily swayed or manipulated. He threw himself into his work. He was solid as steel. A shiver went through Sherlock’s body.

“Cold?”

“No, not particularly. Just a reaction, I suppose. Feels nice. It gets so stuffy in there.” Sherlock was surprised at the ease of the conversation. This was only his third “chat” with Doctor Watson, though he had seen him nearly every day since the first time they met. Most days, he tended to Sherlock’s wounds, checked his vitals, made sure he was comfortable. Most days, they did not speak.

John laughed aloud. It was a pleasant and genuine sound. “You are a not a tent-living kind of man, are you, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock was torn between chuckling and bristling. It was a loaded statement, and he knew what Watson meant: you’re too good for this life, aren’t you, Mr. Holmes? You aren’t a fighter for others, are you, Mr. Holmes? You couldn’t live this way for years at a time, could you, Mr. Holmes? You’re a selfish, spoiled bastard, aren’t you, Mr. Holmes? Sherlock felt a heat find his cheeks. Well. That was completely unfamiliar. He was embarrassed. God only knows what of.

“No, Doctor Watson, I most certainly am not. Although I believe that is an easy conclusion for anyone to draw about me.”

“Indeed, it is. And please, call me John.”

They stood in silence. Sherlock typically preferred this. People tend to talk too much, or believe their words to be far more important than they actually are. He sensed that John had observed this about him, and wondered what other deductions the sharp captain had made.

“You must miss London, Mr. Holmes. I can see it on your face. I’m sorry you’re stuck here.”

Sherlock chewed the words. John Watson knew nothing of his life, past his medical records and obviously self-destructive tendencies, and yet…

“If you’re John, I’m Sherlock. Please.”

The doctor turned to look at him. Sherlock noticed a buzzing rise in his ears. John’s expression was hard to read. “What?” he asked blatantly.

“Nothing. It’s just… you just said please.” John casually lifted his hand to his mouth in an attempt to stifle a quiet laugh. Sherlock felt the corners of his own mouth turn up, and a small sound escaped. Watson giggled in response, a different laugh than the others. Less guarded and constructed. The sound warmed Sherlock’s skin. Was that even possible? For a sound to warm one’s skin?

“Yes, I suppose that is quite odd for me, isn’t it?”

John nodded, beaming from below. Sherlock turned back into himself for a while longer, relishing in the quiet and the captain’s stabilizing presence. They hardly knew one another. Perhaps eight days? And John Watson was already acknowledging character traits, and apparently flaws, of his. That puzzled him. No one was ever quite close or observant enough to draw conclusions about Sherlock, and certainly unable to speak of his habits or frequent behaviors. Sherlock didn’t have friends, and he certainly had not intended to start anytime soon.

He felt a hand on his arm. “How are those feeling?”

Sherlock watched John’s face carefully, looking for a clue. He wasn’t sure what he meant by the question. How are the wounds physically? How are you emotionally? Should I worry? Do you need medication? When is the last time we wrapped them? Do you think it wise to have a coat on over them? Am I doing my job well enough for you?

Mmm. That was an interesting thought. Sherlock considered this for a moment, knowing it was not what John was asking, but may indeed be a subconscious thought. “They’re fine, John, thank you. You’ve done a nice job keeping up with them.”

John’s eyes spoke volumes, but mostly sparked with a gentle “thank you.”

“And how are you feeling?” Holmes was impressed. Watson did not skirt around issues, nor was he afraid to ask the questions others feared response to.

“I’m ready for a proper fucking shower, and to skip the mummy wrappings every day, but all things considered, I’m fine.” He knew it wasn’t what the captain had wished for, but Sherlock felt confident that John expected nothing in return. He was asking to ask, and offering help when he could give it.

“Understandable. You should rest.” And with that, he returned to his post by the tent. Sherlock gave a final wiggle of his toes in the sand before working his way back to his cot. He rolled over and fell asleep covered in the shadow of the Captain outside.

 

+

 

He woke to a firm and callused hand around his upper arm. “Just me, Sherlock, you can continue resting.” Sherlock groaned and stretched, careful to keep the arm in Watson’s hand still.

“Hardly, when your hands are rough as sandpaper.”

“My apologies. I’ll be gentler.” Sherlock stared as John deftly unwrapped the gauze to his wounds. He inspected them carefully. Most of them had started to heal. A few of the deeper slices were having a hard time, even with the stitches. John applied an alcohol doused cotton swab to the irritated areas, Sherlock hissed at that, wiped them dry and applied new ointment. “I know this may not work, but would you be comfortable leaving these exposed today? They need to breathe.”

“They are wounds, John, not living things. I can leave my arms bare and show my battle scars to everyone in camp, if that is what you wish.” His voice was bitter.

John stared at Sherlock, eyes unchanged. His voice dropped to a low whisper. “I’m not sure what happened there, Mr. Holmes, or what your life in London is like. But I can assure you, no one _here_ will be impressed with what _you_ call a battle scar. Choose your words carefully, especially among those that risk their lives every day for the things you so obviously take for granted.” And he was at the mouth of the tent, unrolling his uniform sleeves. “Leave the wounds open for four hours. Stay in bed so as to not provoke any further agitation. I will be back to wrap them.” Then he was gone.

Sherlock stewed over John’s reaction. Normally when he went prima donna, the victims fell silent, or apologized, or retracted their previous statements. John Watson had stared him in the face and had not only been totally and completely unnerved, but also spat his words back in a most clever and concise manner. And the composed bastard had a point, damnit. How rotten he had seemed, whining about self-inflicted injuries when several of these men have been wounded during battle, risk being killed every day, or save the lives of others and have seen wounds far worse than those of a bored, high-functioning sociopath. The captain had not even flinched. And that infuriated Sherlock all the more.

Not a single, fucking thread.

 

 


	3. Clever and Coy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my loves!
> 
> SO! I'm super excited about this chapter. To warn, fire sparks in these 5,000 words. and Top!John makes the world go round. Read at your own risk. ;)
> 
> Questions, comments or suggestions, as always are a wonderful thing.  
> PS - Should I start a running playlist of music that's inspiring this fic?
> 
> Holmes rested his head against the window and closed his eyes. “How far?”  
> “About twenty-two miles. Shouldn’t take long.” He extended his canteen to Sherlock. The brunette rolled his eyes and  
> snatched it from him, unable to deny his own thirst.  
> “Could you not be a man of extraordinary character? Just for, say, three minutes?”  
> John grinned. “Be careful what you wish for.”
> 
> GO, RUN, READ, BE NAUGHTY.  
> For all that is good in this world.  
> XoX  
> hamishh

// 3.

Sherlock glanced up from the pages when he heard the canvas flip back. The doctor entered without words, and sat in the chair next to the cot. Holmes continued to feign interest in the chapter of his book, though truthfully, it was quite dull. Murder mysteries were the equivalent of romantic comedies. Honestly. Someone should do a bit more research and try to make things more interesting. Was this really a mystery to anyone else? He felt John’s eyes on him, and a smile twisted on Sherlock’s lips. He had made it an unspoken goal to gain one foul word from the good doctor’s mouth, by whatever means necessary. It wasn’t as if he had anything else to pass the time. He licked his thumb and flipped the page as if Watson were not there at all.

“Skimming for a bit of recreational reading, are we? I know you solved it nine chapters ago, so either you’re a masochist for enduring such terrible writing, or you’re intentionally pretending I’m not here. Either is fine, but regardless, I need to dress your wounds now. Six minutes of your time.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and dog-earred the page of his book. He let it plop onto his lap. Internally, he wasn’t sure how to feel about the doctor’s attentiveness. On one hand, it fascinated him. It had been ages since he had come across someone who was even moderately observant. Apart from Mycroft, of course. He doesn’t count; he isn’t human. Sherlock chuckled at that thought, allowing his wrists to be examined. The younger Holmes hadn’t fallen much farther from the tree. While he had gained some of his father’s greater traits, the intellect, appearance, and air, he was far more experienced in the realm of humanity than Mycroft was. Of course, it was only because of curiosity that Sherlock knew as much as he did. The captain’s thumb ran gently across three new scars. They were bright pink and puckered, and he imagined them being silky to the touch. The contact caused gooseflesh to rise on his arms.

On the other hand, part of Sherlock was strangely aroused by how closely the doctor was watching him. Sherlock knew he could gather ten years of someone’s life in two minutes time. He also knew that was a rare gift, and one John Watson was unlikely to have. Darker images flicked into the back of Sherlock’s mind. He glanced up at the doctor’s face. His brows were furrowed, only slightly, as if intently studying the patterns of his skin. The thumb continued to move across both his forearms, ghosting places where the nerve endings were brand new. Sherlock remembered John’s comment from hours before. “I’ll be gentler.” Indeed, he was. He watched the jaw of the soldier clench and relax. Sherlock wondered if it was a habit whilst he thought, or a sign of refrain. He found himself wishing for the latter, though he wasn’t sure why.

“I had expected you to be a bit more clever.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

“Razorblade just seems so… mundane and ordinary for you. Figured you would have done something a bit more extravagant.”

Holmes felt his face getting hot. That made him angry. Why did it make him angry? That wasn’t an illogical assumption to make. It was true, in fact. Surely he could have gotten creative even with limited resources. But the fact of the matter was he had not really intended to take his life that night, nor had he meant to mutilate his body. It just sort of… happened.

“Though the pattern of the scarring will be beautiful...” John thumbed the flesh above Sherlock’s right wrist once again, tracing each one. They formed a sort of checkerboard, two long slices running parallel to his veins, three smaller ones crossing over horizontally. Sherlock, for once in his life, couldn’t muster up a quip in response to John’s mildly offensive but somehow incredibly intimate comments. He felt cornered and suddenly wished it had been different: that he wasn’t the man John had deduced he was; that he was a better man. At the moment, all he felt was a bit not good.

“It wasn’t my intention…” Sherlock weakly began.

John nodded, enraptured with the scars. “I know.”

“Are you going to wrap them or not?” He had tried his best to let his bite back in, but it was a feeble attempt. John’s eyes found his. Sherlock felt his heart clench at his expression.

“Yes.” He did not apologize for taking his time or for his comments. Why would he? John Watson would not let words escape his lips if he had not intended them to. He pulled a fresh cotton swab out and soaked it, dragging it lightly across the stitched up skin. The breathing, as the doctor called it, seemed to have helped. The thread almost laid flush against the rest of his arm. Sherlock thought briefly of John Watson unraveling him, literally and figuratively. He felt vulnerable; it was a most foreign concept.

“I apologize for my comments earlier. What I said was childish and selfish, and you did not deserve it.” John’s eyes widened as he laughed. Sherlock was taken aback by two things: one, that he apologized. Two, that John Watson was laughing at his apology.

“Can’t believe you just said that.”

Sherlock thumbed the fresh, white gauze idly. “Nor can I, to be perfectly honest.”

John stood up and brushed the curls away from Sherlock’s face. The detective stilled instantly. “Get some rest, Sherlock. We’re moving to the facility tomorrow.” Watson headed for the opening of the tent and paused, one shoulder already mostly through. “Don’t apologize for who you are. Just remember not everyone can be like you, and we don’t deserve to be punished for that.”

The skin of his brow was burning. Burning like wildfire.

Doctor John Watson would most certainly be his undoing.

 

+

 

Sherlock packed up his few belongings he had with him. Being on a mission in Iraq and then ending up on a base in Afghanistan, rather than back in his flat, had not left him with much.

He sat on the edge of the cot and buried his eyes in the heels of his hand. Today was a bad day. The withdrawal process was getting harder to ignore since John had cut off the morphine. His stomach felt like it was full of something heavy, solid and metallic. His skin was clammy to the touch and he couldn’t get rid of the obnoxious sheen of sweat all over him, no matter how many times he took a towel to his flesh. Sherlock felt volatile and exhausted. He heard the shuffling of boots.

“What?” he growled.

“Humvee’s ready. Are you?”

Sherlock slung his small bag over his shoulder and rammed into John’s side on the way out. He was so glad to get out of this fucking sun, away from bland and neutral things. Ready for a proper shower and some fucking air conditioning. This was bullshit. Who sends a man in need of serious medical attention to a goddamn desert, anyway? Fuck Mycroft. This was his fault. Sherlock would humble him upon his arrival home.

The bag hit the metal in the bed of the Humvee. He went to grab the door when he realized it was already open. John stood there; face as emotionless as he could muster. A smile was quivering at the corner of his lips, begging to be seen. “I’m not a fucking child, Doctor Watson. Afraid I’ll rip up all your hard work opening a goddamn door?”

“Just get in, Sherlock.” His voice didn’t even sound strained. What the fuck was his problem? Would it kill him to acknowledge that Sherlock was an insensitive prick and deserved to be treated like shit? He sat on the vinyl of the bench seat. It was hot under his skin. John shut his door and crossed over, crawling in on his own side. Though John was a stout man, the size of the truck swallowed him up. Watson cranked and shifted into gear fluidly. Sherlock stared out the window at the empty expanse of desert. John did not speak a word.

Holmes rested his head against the window and closed his eyes. “How far?”

“About twenty-two miles. Shouldn’t take long.” He extended his canteen to Sherlock. The brunette rolled his eyes and snatched it from him, unable to deny his own thirst.

“Could you _not_ be a man of extraordinary character? Just for, say, three minutes?”

John grinned. “Be careful what you wish for.”

 

+

 

The compound stood tall against the flat lines of sand. It was torture, being able to see it from such a distance. It made the remainder of the drive drag on. Finally, when they arrived, Sherlock climbed out of the vehicle and grabbed his bag. He felt thoroughly ill. Sick to his stomach, in fact. He had been biting back the overwhelming need to retch for over half the journey.

“Restroom?”

John took in the pallor of Sherlock’s skin and the way he was folded slightly at his waist. “Follow me.”

“I don’t need assistance, just tell me how to get to the fucking toilets, John. Christ.”

“This is quite a bad day for you.”

“I can always rely on the captain to point out the painfully obvious.” Holmes shot daggers into Watson’s back as he followed him into the white walled facility. It seemed as though it might be a lovely building, but he was desperately trying not to focus on the excess saliva gathering around his tongue. The glands at the back of his throat began to tingle, his warning sign.

“Quickly, Watson.” His voice was torn between a growl and a panicked cry.

John moved into a jog and pushed open a door at the end of the hall. Sherlock doubled the length of his steps. His eyes began to water. Fucking shit, this was misery. He hit his knees in one of the stalls, hands clutching the toilet for support. The light from above the mirrors disappeared and he heard the hinges of the door creak. He knew Watson stood less than a meter away, blocking him from humiliation and anyone else that may walk in. He was about sick and fucking tired of –

The muscles of his stomach contracted, sucking all the breath from his lungs. He felt the bile rise in his throat and the imminent threat was there. His stomach clenched twice more before emptying its contents. His arms had sprawled out, covering the lid, and he slumped against the cold porcelain. His right cheek rested against the fabric of his blazer. Tears leaked from his eyes and he took time to steady his breath. No matter how many times he went through the withdrawal process, he could never acclimate to this feeling. He detested it. Eventually he stood on shaky legs, and John opened the door. He extended a cold paper towel, and Sherlock’s toiletries.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to rummage through your things. But I thought you’d like to brush your teeth.”

Sherlock stood in the frame of the stall, staring at him. What the hell _was_ this guy? He wasn’t human; it couldn’t be possible. He was too kind, too bright, far too observant to make Sherlock comfortable, too forgiving, too understanding, too fucking good at his job, too perky, to selfless, too professional, and too valiant. It was infuriating. John Watson was infuriating. Why did he feel so fucking flustered? He snatched the bag of toothpaste, deodorant, floss and the like from the doctor and sauntered to the counter. If you could call it sauntering. Is it still considered sauntering if you’ve just retched your fucking brain out in a hospital loo? He pulled out the toothbrush and paste, ran the faucet, and scrubbed his teeth. He eyed the doctor in the mirror. Watson looked several things at once. Concerned, likely about Sherlock’s condition. Guilty, probably for cutting off the morphine too quickly. Watson couldn’t have known he needed more weaning. Sherlock supposed John understood that he had an addictive personality, but not the extent of it. And mildly debauched. His cheeks were flushed and red, his mouth slightly parted, eyes widened a bit, not in panic, but in… arousal? Sherlock pulled the toothbrush from his mouth, locking John through the mirror. He raised an eyebrow, probing for an explanation. Watson blinked once, twice, then pinched the bridge of his nose and stepped out of the bathroom.

Sherlock spat into the sink and ducked his hand underneath, sipping the cold water from his cupped palm. He contemplated as he swished the water around his mouth, glad to have the burn of stomach acid gone. Perhaps not completely heterosexual. He rinsed his saliva from the sink and grabbed a washcloth from his bag. He considered the few signs that might speak otherwise. It wasn’t much to go on, but this most recent encounter. Well. He’d only been brushing his teeth. And the act of emptying one’s stomach is far from a typical kink. He remembered the burning of his skin where John had pushed away his unruly curls from his head. The skin of his arms flushed hot at the thought of Watson’s gentle hands tracing the new;y found scars, candid thoughts pouring from his lips as though they had conversations like those every day, and had been for years. Bisexual. John Watson could be bisexual. Sherlock tried to calm the heat rising to his face with the cold, damp cloth. He put his things away, zipped up the duffel and reexamined himself in the mirror. He ran a hand through his disheveled curls, and undid another button on his shirt. He leaned down to pick up his bag and walked out the door. John stood next to it at attention. Sherlock chuckled, and the doctor turned at the sound.

He gave a small and somewhat apologetic smile. “Alright?”

“Much better, thank you.”

“Let’s get you settled in your new room.”

Sherlock now felt an overwhelming need to violate the doctor’s space, just to see the reaction. He refrained from brushing against him. At least, until they reached the room at the end of the hall. Watson opened the door and Sherlock grazed his free arm across the captain’s hip as he entered the room. He dropped his bag to the floor and turned to face John. Ten percent eye dilation. He stepped close and spoke quietly to him. “Thank you, John. Sorry for my sour mood today, although, you are quite clever enough to have already deduced its cause.” He carefully tucked a strand of lengthening blonde hair behind Watson’s right ear. The doctor shivered. Self-control easily noticeable – knuckles are white from gripping, muscles of the thighs tensed, face fixed. Eyes now dilated fifty-two percent. “Might be time for another haircut, don’t you think?”

“Quite right, too. Getting much too long. It’s such a pain during my morning PT.”

Sherlock smirked and turned back to the room. It was small, but obviously a vast improvement compared to the sand floor and canvas walls of the tent. It was all white, a bit unnerving, and perfectly clean. The facility was brand new, Sherlock knew this, and he was the first patient to stay in room 221, located in wing B. He chuckled at the thought of christening it.

He turned from the small bed back to Watson. The look on his face was nothing short of terrifying, in the best possible way. His eyes were dark, pushing the sea blue only to the very rims of his pupils. The doctor had a crooked, devilish grin set on his beautifully structured jaw, clenched just slightly, and Sherlock felt so much like prey. He had never felt so feasted upon in all his life. He knew then that Captain wasn’t only a term used during the day job; Sherlock deemed it worthy of escaping his lips if this is what John looked like before ravaging a man. He could easily see himself shouting it out mid-climax, John Watson thrusting between his pale, spread knees, fucking him senseless. Sherlock felt blood relentlessly pour between his hips, and watched as the captain extended his index finger in a come-hither fashion. Without giving his mind the proper time to process, his feet stepped forward until he was sharing John’s air. Watson laced a finger through one of Sherlock’s belt loops, tugging him until the detective’s hard on was resting solidly against the doctor’s waist. John gave a chuckle, palming Sherlock through his trousers. The detective let slip a delicious gasp. Then the doctor’s breath was hot on Holmes’ neck. “Mmm, clever Sherlock. You think you’re the only one that knows how to get exactly what they want?” Sherlock felt faint. Jesus Christ, was he actually going to pass out? His lips began to tingle. “Don’t think I’m oblivious. They don’t call me Three Continents Watson for nothing, _detective._ ” His knees were hardly serving any purpose anymore. “I know you’re pining for me, Mr. Holmes. Know you’ve thought about the way I look at you, the things I notice, the way I touch you.” _Fuck_. His fingernails dug into Sherlock’s back, his thumb pressing deep into the concave part of his hipbone.

Then he let go. The doctor took three steps back, grinning. The loss was staggering. The detective could hardly stand on his own. “So don’t think you are in control. Because I can assure you, you’re not. You won’t be taking advantage of me unless I allow it.” Then Watson laughed and reached for the door, shamelessly eying Sherlock’s taut trousers and generous erection. “That was about three minutes, don’t you think? I’ll be back in two hours. Don’t look so turned on when I return. It’s actually rather hard for me to walk away from you like this.” The white, bland door clicked shut, and silence filled the room.

Sherlock’s head was spinning thousands of kilometers an hour. His erection was insistent and throbbing, missing the heat of John’s uniform clad hip, and desperately wanting to rut against it. He dropped his hand to cup himself, attempting to take some of the edge off. But he found all he wanted was the roughness of Watson’s hands, on his cock, on his chest, on his neck. He was royally fucked.

That gorgeous bastard had told him to be careful what he wished for.

 

+

 

Sherlock sat perfectly still in the ergonomic, plastic chair of his room, his fingers steepled under his chin as he desperately tried to ignore the tension under the fly of his trousers. It had been nearly two hours, John was due back anytime, but Sherlock refused to relieve himself. Masturbation was for the ordinary. He had talked himself down from it several times before; he most certainly could do so now. But… it was proving to be difficult, knowing Watson could stroll in, dressed in that fucking fantastic uniform. Sherlock had played through several scenarios in his head, all which led to a sexual release. He knew, though, that the chance of any of those things happening was slim to none. The doctor was playing a game, but furthermore, proving a point. Sherlock wanted him. God, he desperately wanted him. Wanted to rake his hands through his sun colored hair, wanted to lick his tan wrists, wanted to grind his pelvis against that desert khaki uniform. Watson had won, and Sherlock didn’t give a flying fuck. He just wanted to _taste_ him.

He had imagined the look on John’s face if the doctor had walked in on Sherlock lazily stroking his cock, legs spread on the pale comforter, eyes dark and deviant. He considered locking the door once the captain entered, pinning John to a wall while he made love to that gorgeous, snarky, clever mouth. He’d even pictured himself falling to his knees, whimpering, begging, to take the doctor’s surely divine prick all the way to the back of his throat. Pining was a fucking understatement. It was unbearable. He ran his thumb across the zipper of his trousers, nerves vibrating at the sensation.

The handle of the door twisted and Sherlock’s eyes shot to the sound. His heart was pounding in his ears, blood continuing to gorge to his agonizingly hard erection. He heard the boots first, and Sherlock started at his feet. He soaked in every inch of John Watson with his eyes, sure to remember the smallest detail. The captain stood with his legs spread nearly shoulder width apart; his uniform hugged him snugly across his hips and ass. Goddamn, he had a gorgeous ass. His uniform shirt was untucked, sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned skin, veins thrumming and evident. The two top buttons were undone, revealing a white shirt underneath and the faintest gleam of dog tags. Oh. Sherlock felt his cock twitch. Interesting. Watson’s left hand was shoving up the sleeve of his right arm, causing his biceps to flex in response and pull the sleeves tight against his flesh. The hollow of his neck shone with a thin layer of sweat. The detective wanted to bite him there. He wanted to leave a purple mark, right where Watson’s pulse ran wild after PT in the mornings. His mouth held a mischievous smirk, but nothing like the lecherous smile from earlier. Sherlock wanted to press his thumb between John’s lips and feel the captain’s tongue. He wanted to lick his way inside and discover everything there is to learn about Three Continents Watson firsthand.

“Captain.”

John’s teeth broke through the close-mouthed smirk, and he winked. “Sherlock. Glad to see me, are we?”

Sherlock shivered at the cheekiness. At the casualty of John’s words, knowing his patient had sat in agony for hours, fantasizing about all the ways he wanted to be taken.

“First and foremost, let’s have a look at those arms of yours.” He stood next to the chair, one knee barely between Sherlock’s legs. The proximity was torture. Sherlock loved every second of it. This is what it was like. To feel like something was just out of your reach. How miserable and enticing. Watson methodically unwrapped the gauze and inspected. “Glad to have you indoors. These will be able to heal much faster now.” He wiped them clean and reapplied the clear gel. Slowly, he wrapped the clean, white mesh around Sherlock’s arms. “How are you feeling?” There was only a hint of taunt to John’s words. The detective knew the doctor wasn’t speaking of the rock hard cock between his legs, nor the ache settling in. “You ought to be drinking more water. Withdrawal symptoms are a nightmare, but staying hydrated takes the edge off a bit.”

“Those symptoms have faded significantly.”

“Yes, well…” he chuckled, “I suppose you’ve been a bit distracted.”

Sherlock glanced up to John’s face and back to the soldier’s hips, which were conveniently located directly in front of him. “Quite.”

“I would apologize, but you know good and well not a single cell inside me is actually sorry.” Watson raised a defiant eyebrow down to Sherlock.

“Well aware.”

Sherlock extended a tentative hand, cautiously eying the doctor for signals to stop. John only gave him a wicked smile. Holmes’ long, lithe fingers started at John’s sternum and ran downwards, over his sweat dampened tee shirt, the buttons of his uniform, and resting on the waistband of his bottoms. Watson raked a hand through Sherlock’s untamed curls and gave a sharp tug. The detective’s back arched at the feeling.

“Nice try, handsome.” John whispered. “That’s off limits. But I’ll watch, if you want the company.”

Sherlock felt the air leave his lungs. He stood, running the heel of his hand across his hard on. John’s eyes were on fire. He waved Sherlock to the bed and pulled the now warm seat across the room and settled into it, prepared for a show. John sat lax in his chair, knees lazily spread, arms crossed around his chest, his face smug as hell. Sherlock could eat him alive, if only Watson would allow it.

“Go on, then. I know you’re eager, and I’ve been dying to see you.”

Sherlock felt like a god. Did John Watson make all his prey feel this way? Holmes wondered how the captain feasted. Would he sink his teeth deep into the unseen skin of Sherlock’s thigh? Would he growl as he came down Sherlock’s throat? Was he a rough lover, all fire and heat and urgency? Did he mark first? Would Sherlock’s skin welt and bruise under John Watson’s touch? The detective certainly hoped so. He shed his trousers and pants to the floor in one fell swoop. He tackled the last few buttons and tossed his shirt aside. The detective crawled onto the bed and stood up on his knees, presenting himself.

“Oh, Sherlock. You gorgeous son of a bitch.”

John’s eyes were wide and solid black. His lips were parted and his tongue ran slowly along his bottom lip. Sherlock shivered. He could find no words. He only obeyed Captain Watson’s every command, every bequest. He felt unearthly and divine under that intense stare.

“Touch yourself.” Though it was low and quiet, it didn’t lose a hint of its demand.

Sherlock leaned back on his heels and wrapped a hand around his now mauve cock. His head fell back as the pleasure rippled through him. He whimpered, dangerously aroused at the thought of John watching so intently.

“Do people tell you how delicious you are, Sherlock? When they make love to you? They should. They should praise you and lick every inch of your perfect skin. They should run their nails down your back and keen at your touch.” John’s voice was throaty and dark, flooded with lust. Sherlock moaned and gripped himself a little tighter, his movements picking up speed. He could feel a sweat breaking out across his forehead. How hungry he must look. He found the doctor through half-lidded eyes, holding himself firmly through his trousers. Sherlock allowed a smug smile to cross his lips. John stood and moved toward him. The detective felt his breath hitch in his chest, fantasy after fantasy whipping through his mind. Would John touch him? Would he hit his knees and take Sherlock in his mouth? Would he fold Sherlock in two, allowing eager fingers, or fuck, an eager tongue, access? Would he grab him by the jaw and kiss him tenderly? Any and all options would be heaven, Sherlock knew. The proximity put him at the edge.

John ran two fingers across Sherlock’s clavicles, dominant and exposed on his chest. Sherlock shuddered at the contact. Watson clawed up one of Sherlock’s thighs. “You are everything I imagined you to be and so much more,” he whispered into the detective’s neck. He kissed the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “You are stunning.” He kissed the skin just along his jawline. “I can’t wait to watch you come for me, Sherlock.” His voice filled every hollow place in the detective’s body. Then he bit, chasing the sting with the gentlest trace of tongue. A string of indecipherable obscenities left Sherlock’s lips as he came across the comforter and tile floor. John wrapped a hand gently around the left side of Sherlock’s neck and licked and nipped the other as he found his breath again. Sherlock collapsed onto the bed, chest heaving, eyes lidded.

“Goddamn, Holmes. You are a dangerous thing. You’re going to get me into a world of trouble.”

He found Sherlock’s chin, and pulled him forward, only to plant a chaste kiss on his lips.

“Make sure you clean up. Can’t imagine the nurses would be thrilled to find that sort of mess on the floors already.”

Sherlock shakily sat up on the bed and crossed his legs as Watson headed for the door.

“Is this continent one of the three?” His voice felt small and feeble in his chest. Grogginess washed over him. He was basking in a post-orgasm haze.

“You tell me, Sherlock Holmes.”

John watched him for a moment, paused at the handle of the door. He sighed.

“You make me want to stay. You are bad news, indeed.”

The detective felt his eyes go wide at such a bluntly sentimental comment.

“Don’t look at me like that, you twat. You just got off to my voice. God forbid, I mention you make me want to stay a little longer. Shower up, you filthy animal. See you in the morning. I’m expecting the return of my petulant child.”

With a wink and deviant grin, the captain was gone.

 

+

 

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, tapping his thumbs gently together. His initial thought was of the rapid escalation that had shattered his composure into a tiny, million fragments. John Watson was first and foremost on his mind, and Holmes could already feel the man leaking into more than one location in his mind palace. He sighed, frustrated, and decided to pace instead.

What had happened there? Sherlock was supposed to be the one to make people dance. Which was why Jim Moriarty practically wanted to eat him alive, why Lestrade had called him in for years, why Mycroft was constantly asking him to perform the legwork he refused to do. Sherlock got shit done, and he was a man of confidence, undeniable intellect, and although he was not a people person, he _knew_ people. He knew how to control them, how to manipulate them, and how to charm them, if ever necessary.

John Watson had turned his chin, had darkened his eyes, pulled out that gorgeous, commanding, confident voice and Sherlock lost every logical thought in his head. It was like they dissolved and all the atoms of the previous ideas collected into one, throbbing _want._ That’s all he did, was want.

It couldn’t continue on that way. He had a fucking job, hopefully, had to heal and recover and keep his life from going tits up yet again. He didn’t have time to be seduced by a medical officer in the sands of Afghanistan. It didn’t support the Work, his plans, or his sexual habits, which prior to this, had been slim to none for a solid four years. Staying clean had been hard. Part of him wanted to blame the drugs and the withdrawals for his lack of self-discipline and control, but he knew that accusation would be three hundred and fifty percent false. No, John Watson could not become a permanent fixture, nor should he be a temporary one. Sherlock had made up his mind when the doctor walked in with a steaming cuppa.

“Thought you could use some proper tea. I can imagine it’s been a while since you’ve had some. I took a stab at how you like it, two sugars and a bit of milk, but if that doesn’t suffice, I’ll grab another the next time I’m down.”

Sherlock stared.

God fucking damnit, Watson.

_Want._

 

 

 


	4. Don't Hold Your Composure.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Incredibly short chapter this week, loves. I'm so sorry! I've had a brilliant fic idea dawn on me HARD this week, and I've been having so many thoughts about it that it's been a bit hard to focus on this one. Would you guys still love me if I started the other instead? I promise it will be good. I PROMISE. I've planned so much of it already. 
> 
> Anyway! Here's chapter four, likely to be modified/added to later/soon!  
> <3

// 4.

The steam rising from the hot cup of earl grey was wonderful. It was nice to have something other than a similar accent remind him of home. Sherlock set the mug down on the outside table. It was half past six in the morning, and the desert sand was already reflecting the rising sun. The heat was bearable at this hour, a dry, warm heat rather than a stifling, oppressive one. He straightened his tie, rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. Then he wrapped one hand around the warm cup and took a slow sip. He relished the familiar, earthy flavor as it filled up his insides. He closed his eyes and tried to think of London. It felt like it had been ages since he’d slept in his own bed, wrapped up in gray, high thread count cotton sheets.

Surely this punishment had carried on long enough. Sherlock had been waiting to hear from Mycroft for well over a week now. It was getting a bit redundant and had lost its charm. Had it ever had any charm?

Of course, the only good thing about this sandbox was John Watson. It had been nearly a week since their…whatever it was. Encounter? Watson had continued on as if nothing happened, which as much as Sherlock hated to admit, he was eternally grateful for. Part of Sherlock was highly aware that John knew him far too well. Knew when to tune up and when to bow out. He knew Sherlock would flounder if the incident was mentioned. He had sidestepped it altogether, and given Sherlock comfort in knowing he had no intentions of making another move. Which was good. Very good. Right? Sherlock swished the black tea around his teeth in thought. He had been trying to pitch this to himself every day since the doctor had been poised over Sherlock’s body, urging him on with his captain’s voice. He still wasn’t buying it. He wished he could open his skull and pluck out the emotion bit, like Data from Next Gen. Just choose to turn it on and off. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that easy. And he wasn’t an android, as desperately as he wished he was on occasion.

Sherlock carded both hands through his curls, allowing his head to sink between his arms where his elbows held him steady on the table. He couldn’t get rid of John. Every time he closed his eyes, there he was, charming and undeniable on the back of his lids. It was positively maddening.

The detective had succumbed to self-inflicted pleasure, too, in a desperate hope that maybe the physical release would also alleviate his now-useless mind. No such luck. He couldn’t have a clear fucking thought in his head until that godforsaken man stepped foot into his personal space. Then all the chaos was zapped right into beautiful, clean static.

Sherlock glanced up at the indication of movement. He raised an eyebrow and a small hum left his throat. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Captain Watson was growing closer, running at a comfortable sprint. The detective looked back into his mug, trying to drown the thoughts of the way John’s muscles flexed around his bones, what he would look like with a gun poised in his hand, forearms taut from steady, hungry, eager flesh, how he toed off his trainers after PT each morning and slid into the showers. Heat from something other than his drink filled the detective’s abdomen and he groaned in frustration. It took nothing. Literally nothing at all. One, tiny thought. He raised his eyes again at the sound of heavy breathing. The doctor was walking toward him, hands braced on his hips, chest heaving, head tilted back revealing the beautiful hollow of his throat. He took a hand through sweat soaked hair, and then lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe the excess moisture from his brow. Sherlock’s muscles tensed at the tiny revelation of sunkissed skin under John Watson’s perfectly ordinary t-shirt. There was a delicious line of definition right where the captain’s shorts hit his lower half. One perfect indention next to each hip, diving deep and hinting at the strength of Watson’s body. Sherlock wanted to run his tongue there, taste the saltiness of John’s skin, feel his hot, pulsating hands near his ears. He wanted to be the reason Watson was out of breath.

“You’re up early.” It came between huge huffs of air, that gorgeous voice of his. It still seemed a bit touched by sleep.

“Couldn’t rest any longer. Tired of being pinned up in that tiny cell.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” John peeled his shirt off, straight over his shoulders, and balled it into his fist, wiping his face and chest. “And I figured you’d get off to being pinned up anywhere.” Naturally followed by a devious smirk.

“Just having a morning cuppa. Was enjoying the quiet until you showed up.”

Watson winked and dropped to his knees on the sidewalk. For a moment, Sherlock was certain he had forgotten what breathing was. Breathing is boring. His heart flinched deeply in his ribcage. Sherlock watched as he stretched out parallel to the ground and began a series of pushups.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Sherlock. I know one good load off loosened you up. Quit pretending to be an insensitive prick.” His voice hardly shifted. He was on twenty-two, Sherlock realized. He blushed at the fact that he was keeping count. He couldn’t help it. The deltoid, traps and triceps that belonged to John Watson were things worthy of individual praise. His back was gorgeous. All tanned muscle with freckle kissed shoulders. Thirty-nine. Fifty-three. Eighty-four. Sherlock stared. Moments later, he saw his hand extending towards John’s body, without even asking permission. He quickly recoiled. What the hell was he doing?

“Are you always so vulgar?”

The captain rested on his left knee and turned to look at Sherlock over his shoulder. Sweat glistened where it pooled above his brow, a few drops trailing down his nose. He licked his lips and chuckled. “No. You know I’m not. Only when I’m trying for your attention. You gotta admit, works like a charm.” John sat back on his heels and took his t-shirt to his face once again. Then he rested his hands on his knees and tilted his head in a way that Sherlock had started to interpret as “deep in thought, please wait.” So he did. The detective stared at John expectantly.

“So what happened?”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, eyebrows knitting into a question.

“You know what.” John nodded his head toward Sherlock’s now mostly healed arms. The pink was still a jarring contrast to his milk white skin. The detective’s mouth opened and shut a few times, attempting to formulate words and failing.

“Is it the same reason you deny yourself so much? Is that what you think will happen every time you do something you enjoy?”

“Because I refuse to be at your beck and call does not remotely translate to denying myself –“

John laughed. “You’re an idiot. I don’t mean me, Sherlock. I mean in general. You’re obviously miserable, though you’re never left wanting. You make excuses for your arshole behavior and blame it on everything other than what it actually is. I don’t know a single fucking thing about you. You don’t read or write or paint or sing. You just sit. And sip tea. And observe until your brain oozes out of your skull. Aren’t you bored? Isn’t your life boring that way? Don’t people become dull once you’ve deduced them to a pile of nouns and verbs?” John stood and rested against the brick of the building. He carded a hand through his hair and sighed. “You take all the adventure out of getting to know someone, Sherlock. Whatever it is you are afraid of, you have allowed it to consume you. Devour you whole. Quite sad, really. You’re much too clever to live a life that empty. So I’m just curious. What happened?”

John’s eyes weren’t accusing. They didn’t judge or assume or blame. They just waited, filled with patience and curiosity and an odd, misplaced sadness.

“I play the violin.”

John raised an eyebrow in Sherlock’s direction. A small smile took his mouth, followed by a look of mild bewilderment.

“I compose.”

John’s eyes widened a bit at that.

“It’s nothing, really. But I didn’t want you to think I was actually as pathetic as you believe me to be.” Sherlock picked up his nearly empty cup and made for the door, dress shoes crunching on the cement.

“Sherlock?”

The detective turned at the waist. He cocked an impatient eyebrow. John laughed.

“Thanks.”

The man waved a dismissive hand and disappeared inside the glass paneled building.

 

 


End file.
